


One Bullet (Can Make All The Difference)

by sam_writes



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Gun Violence, Hospitals, I'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-10 05:14:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13495666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_writes/pseuds/sam_writes
Summary: Anastasia dreams of her family. They don't know if she will ever wake up.It turns out he is more his father's son than he thought.AU where Gleb pulls the trigger.





	1. Chapter 1

Anya could have sworn she saw her father as the bullet pierced her skin.

He stood in front of her, proud in a white tailored suit. He looked like he always did in her dreams when they danced. He saved the first winter's dance for her every year.

  
White turned to red splattered across his lapel, his neck, his stomach. His eyes met hers. She screamed.

  
________________________________

  
The shot still echoed in his ears.

  
She had paused for a moment; so still and silent he'd wondered if he imagined it.

  
Then she screamed. She stumbled back. He stared as she fell. All he could do was watch. All he was left with was the sound of his own ragged breaths. The gun was still smouldering in his hands. He studied its shape, its power.

  
What was he to do now? He had no orders. His duties were fulfilled. The girl- Anya, Anastasia, it didn't matter anymore- was taken care of. Her eyes, those haunting blue eyes, were closed. Her chest was still.

  
He didn't notice his hand was shaking until he put his gun back in its holster. _He'd done it. He'd really done it._

  
He took one last glance at the girl he almost loved. She looked almost angelic with her arms outstretched over the illustrious pink fabric. He'd never forget the imagine. Gleb Vaganov still saw her as he ran into the dark night.

  
________________________________

  
“Lily, dear, would you care to find Anastasia for me? I’d wish to give her a letter. The trains don't leave until morning, and I'd like to catch her before she goes.”

  
The Dowager Empress’s hand shook as she passed Lily the envelope. It was thicker than simply a letter. She caught her speculation, and waved it off with a wrinkled hand.

  
“I've added some photographs. She should know the faces of her family.” Maria Fedorova looked away to the door she had so often imagined her family walking through. “It might. . . help her remember more.” 

  
“Of course your majesty.” Lily bowed, and went to grab her coat.

  
“Oh, and Lily?” The empress had that teasing smirk that Lily couldn't help but smile at for it had been so long. “Tell that Popov to keep you warm. A chill is in the air tonight.”

  
Lily had not even walked a block from the flat before she heard familiar footsteps behind her.

  
“I don't know why you hide, darling. The dowager already knows about us.”

  
Vlad gave a hefty laugh, taking her arm in his own. “That doesn't mean she likes me. Besides, the secrecy is the funnest part.”

  
“Mmm.” She batted her lashes at him. Oh, she'd missed this more than she'd ever admit to Vlad. “I've just got to deliver this letter to the girl and we can… take this back to my rooms.”

  
Not even that could lift his spirits. Vlad passed her a sad smile and squeezed her hand.

  
“I just can't believe they're both gone. Of course I never expected the three of us to stay together, I've just come to care for them. And Dimitry…”

  
A siren blared behind them. They turned to see a French police car race down the street. Lily and Vlad shared a glance before racing to follow the car.

  
By the time they got there two policemen were waving off a crowd of bystanders. There was one man allowed past, leaning over someone, pumping her heart.

  
All Vlad could see of the accident was the girls feet, and the bottom of a brilliant pink dress. It was enough.

  
He couldn't breath. He couldn't think. No, it couldn't. She was running off into the sunset with Prince Charming. Princesses don't die in fairy tales. But the time for those had died with the Tsar.

  
“Oh God.”

  
Lily was still holding him, tighter than before. Mindlessly, Vlad walked them closer, shoving past a policeman. As soon as Lily saw her, she hid her face in his shoulder. He couldn't seem to look away, or breathe, or do anything at all.

  
Her dress was soaked red at the stomach, the fabric torn at her hip. She was paler than he'd ever seen her before. Her hair had come undone in her fall.

  
“Is she alive?” He let go of Lily and knelt by Anya. His friend. He could hear the cops stepping closer. “Is she alive?”

  
A hand was on his shoulder. He heard more sirens, as though underwater. “The ambulance is nearly here. She is barely breathing. Do you know this girl?”

  
How was he to explain that this was the lost Grand Duchess, back from the dead, and left dying in the street? It wasn't safe to say her name before, and certainly it wasn't now.

  
“She is my niece.” Lily walked up, drying her tears on a silk glove. If she could be counted on for anything, it was composure during a crisis. “I am a lady to the Dowager Empress.”

  
She looked at Vlad. “She was engaged tonight. Darling, you better go find that young man. Meet us at the hospital.”

  
Vlad left as the ambulance was pulling up. He watched them load up Anya, watched as Lily signed the Lord's cross on her shoulders before stepping in with her.

  
________________________________

_  
This was stupid._

  
Dimitry couldn't stop thinking about her. She was the only good thing he could remember having since his father was taken. 

  
And he left her. _He left her!_ What the hell had he been thinking!

  
But he had to remind himself it was for the best. What kind of life could he have given her? Would they squander around Europe, poor and hungry, no better off than in Russia? Or would they stay in Paris, him playing the part of royalty all his life, never quite fitting in? It would have never worked.

  
None of that made it any easier to leave her. It would never be easy. He knew if he'd stayed to say goodbye he'd never be able to go- not if he had to look her in her eyes, always seeming to shine with hope in spite of her life. He knew that if she asked him to he would stay by her side.

It would only hurt the both of them.

  
He'd be lying if he said he didn't wish he'd taken some of the reward though. He'd spent the last of his money the three of them had split on a train ticket to Poland. They had ports and some factories; it wouldn't be too hard to find work. From there, he'd save money and figure it out. Maybe England, or warm and sunny North America. He'd board that train with his fake passport, some pocket change enough for food, and a burden of bittersweet memories.

  
Dimitry just wished he'd been smart enough to ask for a little of the reward for a hotel. A chill was setting in the air, and all he had was a station bench and his old jacket to keep him warm.

  
He'd been there for hours. The last train had just left when he arrived. When he first left the hotel that morning he hadn't expected to leave Paris; but he'd known he had to let her go and he couldn't do that staring at her from the same town.  
Dimitry popped up from the bench.

  
What was he doing? Had he lost his mind? He loved her. Couldn't that be enough? For once in his life he wanted to keep something good.

  
He wanted to keep _her_.

  
Maybe it would all crash and burn. Maybe this was all pointless. But coming here had given him something he never thought he'd ever see again: hope. Joy. A life beyond just surviving. 

  
He needed to go back and tell her. Whatever the cost.

  
He hadn't realized how far he'd wandered from their hotel until he had to make the trek back to her grandmother’s flat. The hotel was only a few blocks away from the flat, but he'd already walked nearly a mile and wasn't even half way back.

  
As he headed closer to the city he felt a little more out of place in his faded Russian tweed. He passed couples on a mid-night stroll from the theater, dressed in fine tailored suits and gowns.

  
“… in the street, just lying there…” Dimitry couldn't help but overhear the woman gossiping as she passed by.

  
Another block, another passing conversation. In the quiet every word seemed to echo.

  
“They say her dress was jeweled. God only knows what a girl wearing something like that could get herself into that sort of trouble for.”

  
“Antoinette saw it herself, darling, she says it's true. She said the girl looked like an angel, even with the blood…”

  
He stopped. Dimitry was too scared to breathe. A beautiful girl in that kind of dress? They couldn't have meant…

  
He turned on his heels, ready to chase them down, before he heard echoing steps behind him. Fast steps. He turned again, bracing himself.

  
“Dimitry! You have to come, quick.” He didn't say why, but Dimitry didn't need to ask. His eyes were far too sad. He was more sober than he'd ever seen him. And the rumors.

  
“Where's Anya?”

_  
He never said goodbye to her._


	2. Chapter 2

  
Anastasia was dressed in her finest white gown, and her mother had finally let her wear heels to the first winter’s ball. She was fifteen years old.

Tatiana had done her makeup, a swipe of rose on her lips, cheeks, eyelids. She'd never felt prettier, and Felix Yusupov had asked her for a dance. This was positively the best night of her life.

“Please, Papa! Can't I dance with him? Just one song?”

Nicholas looked at the young man, skeptic as always when it came to his daughters. He'd had a feeling about that family. Yet, looking at the absolute joy on his daughters face and that gleam of a young girls love in her eyes, he couldn't deny her this.

“One dance. But after you honor me the first one of the season.”

She smiled wider than she could ever remember doing. She gave him her hand and she spun.

And spun.

And spun.

And spun, down into oblivion, finding that she would be content to never leave and stay in this moment with her family again.

__________________________________

Dimitry couldn't even remember how they got to the hospital. All he could remember was pieces of what Vlad had told him of what happened:

_“they found her… been shot… not sure how long ago…”_

Every hourly update since was the same. It had taken ten minutes the first time a doctor came out before he realized Dimitry couldn't speak French, with Vlad asking for a translator for his ‘nephew’.

When they finally found a nurse who spoke Russian, she started coming to them with the updates.

There were no details yet, except the bullet had hit her side and it was critical. They weren't even sure she would make it out of surgery.

Every update was the same as that. The surgery seemed to never end.

Until it did, well past noon the next morning.

Vlad was sleeping quietly in the chair next to him. He'd tried to stay awake but fell asleep sometime past five. Lily had gone home but Vlad couldn't bear to leave Dimitry alone. He'd never forgive himself if something happened to Anya and he wasn't here.

Dimitry couldn't even imagine sleep. He stayed awake all through the night for every update.

He shook Vlad awake when another doctor walked to them without the woman who'd given them updates.

“I'm Dr. Bolovic, I was the lead surgeon on the case for the young woman brought in. May we speak privately?”

Dimitry stood, tired and wary. The doctor was an older man, dark hair tinged with gray. Slowly they followed him to a corner office away from the waiting room. Dr. Bolovic waved for them to sit.

“You speak Russian?”

“I was thirty when I left Perm. My wife and I were expecting, and we knew the borders were closing so we left everything and came here. I assume it was the same you?”

Vlad and Dimitry shared a glance- their journey was a bit more complicated.

Dimitry leaned forward in his chair. “How is she?”

Dr. Bolovic suddenly looked twenty years older.

“The surgery was difficult. The bullet had gone through her right hip, bursting her appendix and puncturing her stomach lining. The appendix was taken out, and we stitched her stomach but there is no telling about how easy the recovery would be since she was left in the street so long.”

“How long?” Dimitry asked. “How long was she…”

“By the blood lost and the state of the wound, we estimated two to four hours.”

_All because he wanted to ‘save her’. If he'd just been there none of this would have happened. He should have been there. He should have protected her._

The doctor shifted in his chair. “I need to ask you some uncomfortable questions. Who is this girl? Is there any reason someone would want to kill her? The police need to know.”

Dimitry looked the man in the eyes. “Her name is Anya.”

Everyone in the room knew that was the end of the questions. If they came after her once, there's no telling if they'd do it again. It wasn't safe. It might never be.

“There's another thing you need to know before you see her. She- Anya- is in a coma.”

Vlad even didn't comprehend. “What- what does that mean?”

“It means that she is asleep. We don't know when, or really if, she will regain consciousness. Until then, machines are breathing for her to give her body a break.”

 _This was all his fault._  
_________________________________

Gleb had been close enough to hear the sirens. He tried to push the doubt and guilt out of his mind as he put his head against the alley wall.

He'd need to stay low for a few hours, until the gossip and streets died down enough to find a payphone without drawing unwanted attention to himself.

It was maybe three or four in the morning when he ventured out of the trash laden alley without a soul in sight. It wasn't hard to find a phone, they were practically on every corner. He, begrudgingly, put in three of the government reserved francs he,d been given for a call and dialed the coded number his superiors told him to memorize before leaving.

A click. A deep voice answered. “It's a beautiful night today.”

“The clouds are gone and there's a dozen stars, comrade.” The rehearsed codes were exchanged, and the line was passed over. A minute passed as the line was redirected.

“Is it done?”

“I have done my duties. The girl… won't be returning.”

“You'd make your father proud, boy. Russia thanks you. Well wishes, comrade.”

“Wait.” Gleb was confused. “What are my orders?”

“You have fulfilled them. All you must do now is turn yourself into the French authorities.”

Harsh breathing was the only sound Gleb could make. “I have given my soul to the good of Russia.”

“And we need to be certain that the investigation is closed without leading to us. An international crisis could lead to another war. You are saving Russia. We will honor you as a hero.”

 _They'd known all along. They'd planned for him to take the fall._ Yet he had his orders.

“I… understand.”

“Safe passage, comrade.”


	3. Chapter 3

Alexei passed her the bucket, and Anastasia carefully placed it on the door sill. 

 

“A little to the left, Nastya!” 

 

“Maria stop it you're shaking the stool!” 

 

“Shh! She's coming!” 

 

Anastasia made sure the bucket was secure and scurried off the stool. Maria shoved it in the corner of the room and the three of them scrambled into the closet. 

 

Footsteps approached, the door opened, and Olga shrieked as the cold water soaked her hair and summer dress. 

 

“B’layd!” Her eyes flickered to the closet filled with stifled giggles.

 

It was at that moment Maria vowed never to listen to Anastasia again, Alexei decided it would be best to prank Tatiana instead, and Anastasia thought the look on Olga’s face was worth all the shoes she could throw at them. 

 

“Run!” 

__________________________________

 

She looked so small lying in the cot, more wire and machine than human. 

 

Dimitry had barely slept through the four nights she had been in the hospital. He held onto her hand and listened to the machines echo out her heartbeat, reminding himself it was still there. 

 

The nurses were sweet on him; they let him stay an hour past visiting hours. It didn't make leaving any easier. Every night Vlad and he would return to the hotel. He'd take a bath, holding himself underneath the water, hoping he'd wake up from this nightmare. He'd come out pink and raw. If he was lucky he'd be able to get a few hours of sleep. 

 

Vlad only ever left during visiting hours to bring Dimitry food or clothes, pleading with him not to neglect his own care. 

 

“She'll still be here Dimitry. She's as stubborn as you. There's no way she'll give in.” 

 

He knew Vlad was worried about him- he was the closest thing to family the old man had left. But still, he couldn't leave her. Anya would need him when she woke up. He'd need her. 

 

For most of the day he would sit with Dimitry. He'd leave for dinner with Lily, give her an update, and come back with Dimitry in the morning. 

 

Those ten hours between visitation was the worst part of it. He feared that when he'd come back, she'd be gone. 

 

“She's a fighter, you know.”  

 

It was the morning of the fifth day in the hospital. Dr. Bolovic was checking in on her again. 

 

“Yeah.” Dimitry smiled softly at Anya, giving her hand he'd been holding since six that morning a squeeze. “She's the strongest person I know.” 

 

He couldn't stop thinking about her. All the hope she had for the future. Her smile when they danced, when she was so close he could smell the crushed flowers she found near the Neva river bank. She'd set out on mornings she didn't sweep the streets to gather them. At night she'd rub them on her wrists and neck. She'd told him when he asked once it felt familiar, like it was something she'd done before she lost her memory.

 

He tried to smell those flowers now. There was nothing. 

 

_________________________________

 

Lily hadn't been to see Anastasia since her first night in the hospital. It felt wrong. She hadn't known the girl long and she'd never have been permitted to even be in the same hospital as a Romanov much less sit at ones bedside. It was hard to give up the old ways. 

 

Instead, she'd sit for dinner with Vlad. She could see the wariness in his eyes, a kind of tired living deep in one’s bones. He'd tell her no change, in the girl or Dimitry. 

 

That was why she stayed away. 

 

She'd seen the way he looked at him; the way a man looks at his son. First, with pride, at the ballet, seeing him in a fine suit almost looking like he could belong among the gentry. Now, with fear, that he'd never recover if she didn't. 

 

Vlad needed time alone with the new family he'd made. She could accept that- Dimitry needed someone looking out for him. 

 

Lily took her coat off the rack at the Dowager’s palace. It was nearly seven, and she was set to meet Vlad again at seven thirty. 

 

She hadn't expected the empress to be standing with her cane by the door- she'd  gone to her room so retire an hour ago. 

 

“You're keeping something from me, Lily.” The aged woman looked her sternly in the eye. “I demand to know what it is.” 

 

She tripped over her words.  _ That stare _ . “Oh, no, your majesty I would never-”

 

“So now you're lying! I'm not a fool. The sneaking, running all over the place, trying to talk me out of the theater this weekend. I've grown fond of you, Lily, but I will replace you if need be.” 

 

Lily couldn't find the words.  _ What explanation could she possibly give? _ The Dowager’s face softened. 

 

“Has something happened?” 

 

Lily wrung her hands together, mouth opening and closing, unsure.  _ What if she told her, and the girl died? What would the truth do to this elderly woman who'd already lost everything?  _

 

She had to have faith. Maria deserved to know. She deserved to be with her granddaughter should these be her final moments. 

 

“It's Anastasia.” 

 

As a young queen, Maria Federanova had been taught to master a mask of regality. It kept her stoic and unbending to her subjects; an empress could never show weakness. 

 

Over the years she carried it with her. The execution of her family fastened it  to her skin, unwilling to give it up and feel it all again. 

 

It dripped off her like wax now, puddling who she once was at her feet; all that was left now was a heartbroken woman left with memories and little else. 

 

The Dowager was numb, face relaxed, younger than Lily'd ever seen her. Her eyes were shut. Her heaving breaths echoed off the walls.

 

She grabbed the table for support as her knees buckled. Lily daughter her before she fell, bringing her over to sit on the couch. She herself took a chair and sat across from the empress, taking her wrinkled hands in her own. 

 

“Your majesty -” 

 

“Don't.”

 

She shook her head. Tears began to fall despite every ounce of her being being to hold them back and deny this as reality.

 

“I can't hear it. I had to hear it with Nicolai, and all the children. I can’t -” 

 

“She's alive! Anastasia is alive.” 

 

The Dowager empress was able to open her eyes. The ragged breaths became controlled. 

 

She straightened her back, wiped her eyes. She allowed the barest trace of a smile before she fastened her mask back on, ever the harrowing Russian Empress. 

 

“Take me to her. I want to see my granddaughter.” 

 

__________________________________

 

A choked back sob woke Dimitry. He lifted his head from its place on the hospital bed still holding Anya’s hand. He hadn't been aware he'd fallen asleep. 

 

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. When Dimitry looked to the door he felt wide awake. 

 

The Dowager Empress stood there trembling. Her countess followed, helping her to the seat opposite his own. With a wave of the hand, she dismissed her. 

 

They sat in silence as minutes ticked by, each of them holding her hand and listening as the machines beeped. 

 

“Lily tells me you are here every day as long as the nurses allow you to stay.”

 

He nodded, confused, studying her face. She never liked him and now they were making small talk over her granddaughter’s comatose body. 

 

Maybe it was the fact that she was Anya's grandmother. Maybe it was that fact that she was the only other person he could talk to that could understand the total loss of family. Whatever the reason he found himself speaking words he hadn't been able to say. 

 

“My mother was sick when I was a boy. She asked me to get her some water from the well and when I came back she was already dead. I won't let that happen again. I have to be here. For her.” 

 

The empress looked at him with something he hadn't seen: a look of complete understanding rather than sympathy. 

 

“I got a letter when Nikolai died. It didn't say anything else. Just that it had been done. That my family was  _ dead _ . I stayed awake for months wondering. Did they know? Were they afraid?

 

“It was worse when the details came. When the guards talked about how they slaughtered my grandchildren.” 

 

She stroked Anastasia’s hair as though trying to keep her alive, to keep her family alive. 

 

“She is all I have left.” 

 

Dimitry felt the tears in the back of his throat. “She's the first person I've let myself get close to since the revolution.” 

 

The Dowager reached her free hand across to him. They held Anya. They held each other. 

 

They talked for hours until the nurses had no choice but to ask them to leave. They told each other stories of the girl they both loved. 

 

Maria told him of how she always won at hide and seek. How she and Alexi at the winter palace would dig tunnels into the sand on the beaches. How she, Olga, Tatiana, and Maria would be caught gossiping late at night by her father when they would sneak matches into their bedroom to light a candle. 

 

Dimitry told her about how all Anya wanted was to find her. How she followed every faint memory. How she loved dancing even though he was a mess. How she hummed ballets and lullabies as she worked. How she fought and stood up for herself against himself, Vlad, even alley drunks twice her size. 

 

They didn't hug or touch hands again but before she left she smiled at him. 

 

“She was running to you, you know. She was going to leave all of this for a life with you.” 

 

Then she took Lily's arm, who had been standing in the hall chatting with some of  the nurses, and they were gone. 

 

He took his own jacket and made his way to the hotel. 


	4. Chapter 4

Her mother fanned out the large woven blanket as Anastasia and her sisters carried in the dishes. 

 

It was summer, the Empress Alexandra’s birthday, and each year they went on a picnic to celebrate. 

 

Anastasia set down the bowl of strawberries she'd carried from the car and admired the view. 

 

The sky was blue. Like the flowers of the Neva. The ocean water below her was picking up speed, waves beginning to rise and crash against the smooth cliff side rocks. The water was deep and beautiful, nearly purple; like the dress she's worn to the ballet. 

 

Except- she'd never been to a ballet. Nor was she allowed to ever go near the Neva. 

 

Her thoughts were dispersed by her mother’s hands on her shoulders. 

 

“Have you prayed, Anastasia?” 

 

“Every night Mama.”  

 

Her mother sat straight, scolding. “No you haven't. You've been forgetting.” 

 

The waves against the hill were louder now. 

 

Crash. 

 

“You've been forgetting a lot, my daughter.” 

 

Anya took a step back. 

 

_ Crash _ . 

 

The waves grew louder still. 

 

They were all coming closer now. 

 

Her mother, father. Olga. Tatiana. Maria. Alexi. 

 

_ CRASH _ .

 

The waves morphed, thundering, breaking the hill, cracking the earth, shaking her very bones. 

 

All the while her family crept closer like phantoms. 

 

Step by step perfectly timed to the oceans fury below. 

 

She took another step back and felt the cliff side give away under her. 

 

**_CRASH!_ **

 

She was falling, grasping at the air, fighting against the pressure in her lungs. 

 

She could recognize it now.

 

Gunfire. 

 

The waves sounded like gunfire. 

 

__________________________________

 

“Come on, please, another ten minutes.” 

 

It was nearly nine and visitation ended at eight. The poor nurse barely spoke Russian and Dimitry knew he must have looked crazy. He just couldn't leave her. Not yet. 

 

“Monsieur, you need leave. It is late. The patients need rest.” 

 

“This is the coma ward!” 

 

She looked at him, exasperated. Every night he argued with her. She was a small woman, and kind to him. But even she has rules to follow, and she'd lent him an extra half hour but any more would be a risk to her job.

 

He tried to remember this each night he left. 

 

Erratic beeping brought both of their attention back into Anya’s room. The machines were wild, displaying flashing numbers he couldn't read and sounds that pierced his ears. 

 

In the midst of it all was Anya, back arched off the bed like a woman possessed. 

 

“What's happening?” Dimitry ran to her side but couldn't do anything. He couldn't touch her, couldn't save her, couldn't even understand what was happening. “What the hell is happening?” 

 

He was pushed into a corner of the room as doctors and staff care bustling in. They spoke a whirlwind of French and he couldn't understand a word. He couldn't breath. He couldn't stand. His knees gave out and he sunk, slowly down the wall, as though gravity itself were pulling him. 

 

A nurse grabbed him, the same one he talked to two minutes prior, and ushered him out to the hall.

 

He started thinking, for one irrational moment, about how he didn't even know her name. He'd talked to her each night, granted through broken Russian, and didn't even know something as basic as that. People could go through life spending all this time with someone and not even know who they are.

 

They didn't even know who she was. They didn't know how she smiled or the sound of her life or how a slice of cheese would calm her from her nightmares in the middle of the night when she didn't want to wake anyone. 

 

What if died? What if she was forgotten? They didn't know her. She wasn't claimed by her grandmother. She would just fade out into another myth. 

 

And he was helpless against any of it. 

 

________________________________

 

The music swelled from outside the bedroom doors but Anastasia didn't care. Her nana was with her.  

 

“Anastasia, you are too old to be pouting. And too strong.” 

 

She only now seemed to notice her bottom lip, jutted out so far it was practically at her chin. This was not a child that liked being told no. 

 

“If I'm so old, why can't I go to the ball?” 

 

Her nana held her tighter and laid a kiss on her hair. 

 

“There will be so many years for you to go dancing. Stay with me for this one.” 

 

Anastasia watched, confused, as her grandmother began to cry. 

 

_ Nana never cried. She was the one who was strong.  _

 

“Nana?” 

 

Her grandmother was sobbing now, shaking with the cries. 

 

“Stay with me, Anastasia!” 

 

She touched her face, wrinkled like she'd never seen it before. 

 

But hadn't she? 

 

The hands on her grandmother’s face was not the small hand of a six year old. Her fingers were too calloused. Knuckles too gaunt. 

 

It came back with each tear her nana shed. The sweeping. The train. The play. 

 

Dimitry. 

 

Gleb. 

 

“Nana I’m here! I've come back!” She was sobbing too now. “We've made it to Paris Nana.” 

 

She wasn't six anymore. She wasn't in her bedroom. She no longer wore her simple cotton nightgown. 

 

Anastasia was in her gemmed ball gown. It was still stained with blood. Her grandmother was gone. She laid alone, in the dark, with the feel of Parisian brick at her back. 

 

“I'm here.” 

 

She sobbed, shaking on the ground. 

 

“ _ I'm here _ .” 

__________________________________

 

Lily had been reluctant to bring the Dowager Empress when Vlad had called from the hospital that night.

 

But she confided in Lily that she hardly wanted to leave the hospital. Despite all the pain and anxiety of the hospital she rather enjoyed talking to Dimitry.

 

It was different than family. She couldn't help but tiptoe around family memories with Anastasia because she wasn't sure how much she remembered. Would a memory spark an outburst as she'd seen from some soldiers? Would her not remembering be more painful? 

 

With Dimitry there had been no caution with stories. They understood one another but didn't fear any responses because they were practically strangers. 

 

So when the telephone rang that night she hesitated. Her majesty was elderly. What would this do to her? What is she had to see her favorite grandchild die? 

 

But no force on earth would keep her from her granddaughter come morning. What difference would a few hours make? 

 

_ She'd never forgive herself if the girl died while she kept Maria from her. _

 

“You're majesty, we need to go to the hospital. Now.” 

 

Lily would never forget the screams. Maria had walked as fast as she could, forgoing the cane. She stopped at Anastasia’s doorway, bustling still with staff, and let out a violent cry. 

 

A cry of a woman losing everything. 

 

It took nearly an hour to calm her, the nurses kind enough to let her recover in a private room. Her words were unintelligible until her tears subsided. 

 

“I want to see her.” 

 

Lily couldn't find it in herself so say even a word. She couldn't deny her this. Not now. Not with Anastasia. She simply nodded and offered her hand. 

 

She walked her back to the rooms, until she was seated in a bedside chair, grasping Anastasia’s hand so tightly Lily thought she might leave a bruise. 

 

“Your majesty-” 

 

“Wait for me in the halls.” She didn't even look up from her granddaughter’s face. 

 

Lily could hear the cries from the other side of the door, but she could still make out her muffled mantra. 

 

_ “Stay with me.”  _

_______________________________

 

Anastasia woke up in her cot in the middle of the night. The cushioned bed and pillows was a surmounted release from the hard wooden floors the children usually slept on; it almost made the sickness worth it. 

 

Another cough scraped its way up her throat. Her head felt so swollen she thought it might burst. 

 

She felt a hand on her hair, stroking. She knew it was Tatiana. Another hand held hers. Maria. Olga she felt sitting on the corner of the cot, a presence against her legs. Even Toby was there, the dog whining and licking at her face. 

 

Alexi came in, heralding light from the door. He held both his parents by the hand as they walked in. Her father looked like a saint as the candle lit halls behind him fanned their light like a halo around him. Her mother was an angel beside him. 

 

Her father kneeled in front of her, and wiped her tears. Despite the clouded vision she kept her eyes on him. 

 

“Papa, I'm scared.” 

 

He chuckled as his thumb swept over her cheek. 

 

“When you were born, I was sad you were not a son. But you held my finger so tight I'd known then that you'd have just as much strength.”

 

“Your name means resurrection.” Her mother sat on the floor now too, grasping another hand. “You have already been reborn. You remember.” 

 

Remember she did. Anastasia remembered the lavish balls of her teenager years. The sudden change of home and life itself. The taunts from the soldiers that made her red and afraid. The gunfire. The screams. Falling from the truck with Alexi’s little body over her own. Too afraid to scream. Wandering the woods on a twisted ankle when she could finally the strength to move. Walking for miles, bloody and bruised, until she collapsed on the skirts of an unknown town. 

 

“I wish I didn't. I wish I could stay here with you.” 

 

“We will always be with you, my daughter.” 

 

Her father stood, offering a hand to her mother. They both pressed kisses to either cheek. Anastasia kept her eyes closed. She wanted to cherish this. She wanted to remember what it was to be either family. 

 

“It's okay Nastya.” Alexi had crawled to where Toby had been, and she hugged him tight to her chest. Her baby brother. Her best friend. “I know you feel bad. But it's okay.” 

 

“There is no guilt necessary for survival,” Olga whispered in her ear. 

 

Tatiana whispered back, “We wanted you to go on.” 

 

“We love you, we want you to live, it's okay, Nastya.” Maria squeezed her hand. 

 

Her mother put a finger under her chin, making their eyes meet. “But the choice is yours. Decide quickly.” 

 

Footsteps like drums echoed around her. They came closer to the lit doorway, louder with every step. 

 

“They're coming, aren't they?” Anastasia hugged Alexi tighter to her chest. 

 

She looked down on him in the dim lighting. Her hands were wet. Red. 

 

“They've already come.  _ Choose _ !” 

 

__________________________________

 

Dimitry hadn't cried until he sat in Dr. Bolovic’s office. 

 

The older man had been the surgeon on call who'd come running into the room. He was the one who told Nurse Buchame to take Dimitry into the hallway. 

 

After the bustle ended nearly an hour later he'd walked out to find the young man still sitting in a hard plastic chair blankly staring ahead. 

 

“Dimitry? Why don't you come with me. Follow me, okay?” 

 

In a daze, he followed, shoes scuffing at every step. 

 

When they got to his office and the door shut and the curtains were drawn and they were really all alone is when Dimitry finally let it all go. 

 

He swiped a chair over. He kicked the other into a corner. He punched at the metal door frame until his knuckles bled. 

 

Energy spent and overwhelmed, he looked around breathing heavy. Bolovic sat calm as ever behind his desk. 

 

“By all means, Dimitry you may continue. You aren't the first to take out their rage of the injustice of life in this office. When my daughter died I punched straight through that glass window.” 

 

Dimitry felt the hot stain of tears slip down his face. He hadn't cried since his father had been taken away. He'd tried so long to deny what's happening, to hold it all in, but he couldn't anymore. 

 

“What's happening to her?” 

 

Bolovic pulled the chairs back to their original position, dusted them off, and patted one for Dimitry to take a seat opposite him.

 

“This happens often with trauma patients. Medicine and time has done all it can. We need to see now if it will be enough. These next twelve hours are critical.” 

 

“You're saying tonight she'll either wake up or -” he still couldn't say it. Couldn't  _ believe _ it. 

 

“Where is the man who came here with you? Your uncle, he said? I'll call him. He should be here.” 

 

“He went down to a bar. He doesn't handle anxiety well.”

 

Bolovic put a hand on his arm. “I'll call him. Be with her.” 

 

Dimitry stood up and dried his eyes. Before he opened the door he heard the doctor call out to him. 

 

“It's her, isn't it? The duchess? Not many of the French could tell, but I'd seen the Dowager on tours when the was Alexander’s empress.”

 

Dimitry didn't answer, and left. 

 

He got back to the room and pulled his chair closer. Only the wires were keeping him from climbing into the bed with her. 

 

Her skin had gone pale and clammy. Her hand felt like ice between his. 

 

She was dying. 

 

“The parade traveled on. With the sun in my eyes you were gone. But I knew even then. In a crowd of thousands of find you again. 

 

“I found you Anya. You can't just leave. Not yet. Not now. Not ever. You're- you're grandma needs you… I need you. I was coming back. It was stupid to leave. I was coming back for you!” 

 

He put his head on her stomach. His shoulders shook with the effort not to sob. 

 

“I love you, Anya. 

 

“You can't leave. You can't- die, because if you do than what was the point? You survived this before! You came across Russia and Europe to come back  _ here _ . And if fate or karma or whatever can get  _ you _ , there's no chance for the rest of us. 

 

“Please, Anya. Please wake up.” 

 

Vlad had rushed in red and blotchy half an hour later. No one said a word, no nurses came in, and time stalled itself to an agonizing creep. 

 

It was four hours later that her heart monitor jumped, the sudden beeping almost as loud as Dimitry’s heart in his chest. 

 

The nurses stood in the hall, waiting to see what the patient would do. They had strict orders of DNR. 

 

But it reverted. 

 

The beeping stopped. 

 

Her heart was working normally again. 

 

Her eyes opened. 

 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Anya blinked herself awake. Dimitry watched every second with relief and fascination. It felt like a miracle. 

 

She looked at him, and for a breath their eyes met and he thought he might say something, or perhaps she would. Something they'd both waited far too long to hear. 

 

She opened her mouth as if she would, but all that came out was sobs. Tears rolled thick down her blotchy face. She reached out shakily, too weak to sit up. In an instinct he hadn't had since she showed him the diamond to buy their freedom, he hugged her. 

 

They sat there, clutching each other, reminding themselves she was alive, until her breath had calmed. Dimitry was practically on top of her but neither cared about the implications. All that mattered was that  _ Anya was here, and awake, and alive.  _

 

“Anya!” The two separated as Vlad made his way to the bedside. “You gave us all quite the scare.” 

 

He tried to laugh- he'd never been comfortable in tense situations- but couldn't muster a proper smile. It was more of a sad grimace. 

 

“Don't ever do that to us again.”  He bent to give Anya a hug, and came up watery eyed. He sniffled and tried to discreetly wipe his eyes. “I'd better call Lily. Your grandmother has been worried about you.” 

 

Anya waved as he left, and tried to keep up a weak smile, but dropped the facade as soon as she was alone with Dimitry. She sank back into the pillows, and closed her eyes. Her skin was sallow and clammy. 

 

With what little strength remained, Anya pat the left side of her cot. Since her nightmares came to light it wasn't uncommon for him to stay in her bed until she drifted to sleep. Dimitry climbed up next to her and she turned to him, pulling her warm skin flush against his own. He felt her mumble against his chest, only half awake. 

 

“Anya?” 

 

She couldn't find the strength to open her eyes. “I remember it, Dimitry.” 

 

His stomach dropped. Dimitry felt a chill ripple through every nerve. “Who was it?” 

 

It came like a whisper. With one word every iced nerve turned to fire. 

 

“Gleb.” 

 

And she fell back to sleep, still clutching his arm. 

 

__________________________________

 

Gleb Vaganov had been a man of country and duty since he was a child in the looming shadow of his father. 

 

When he was twenty four years old, already a city officer in the Yekaterinburg village enforcing curfews and prohibition, he felt he had a life set out for him. His work was not glorious but it was necessary. Then his father executed the Romanovs. 

 

Gleb heard the gunfire more than a mile away in his family's home. It seemed to last a lifetime. The whole village ran home. It did not take much guessing to figure what happened. 

 

He saw his father return. His pistol was covered in soot, his spotless black shoes splashed with blood. He did not shake. He did not speak. Mikel Vaganov merely sank into his spot at the dinner table and drank his way through a bottle of vodka. The house remained silent. 

 

When Gleb was twenty six years of age his father took that same pistol and put it in his mouth. His mother never spoke of him, called his actions in both cases to be the  vilest of sins. 

 

He had never seen his father as weak, but he was never strong enough to do what was necessary. He couldn't see that he had done Russia justice. 

 

Gleb had never been comfortable with murder, but country came first. They had to do away with Romanovs entirely if they wanted Lenin to hold authority. Russia was for the better for all of this.

 

Wasn't it? 

 

He remember seeing children under bridges. He remembered his father turning to stone before his very eyes. He remembered the parades and festivals long since done away with. 

 

He remembered Anya, sweeping the streets. He remembered the rush of his heart as he helped her up from the street when they first met. A good strong Russian girl. Serving her duty to her country. Beautiful. 

 

He remembered his finger twitching on the trigger. 

 

He remembered her shaking as she always had before she fell.

 

He remembered leaving her to bleed out into the streets. 

 

All of this. For what? 

 

His country, for whom he'd sacrificed his family, his very soul to.

 

But they'd let him die for this. Yet he understood. Martyrdom was never particularly appalling. He had just pictured something more purposeful: a global demonstration, saving another, any sort of heroic or memorable deed. They were asking him to be remembered for the murder of an innocent young girl. 

 

He didn't even know if she was Anastasia. She was young and confused and lead astray. He had accepted deep in his heart that she was- those Romanov eyes, the way she held herself, the smoothness of her palms that only avoiding hard labor for most of your life could buy you. But what did it matter? 

 

Say she was a Romanov. She fled. She made no claim to the Russian throne. She did not want to start a revolution. She was simply a girl trying to find peace and love. Did that condone a death sentence? 

 

He held his gun. 

 

This machine of destruction. It had killed royalty. It had murdered his father. It had been aimed at the woman he tried not to love. 

 

What sort of curse had been placed in his hands? He had given his whole life to the good of his country. All he had to show for it was the black powder stains on his hands and on his heart. 

 

He'd seen the hospital sigil on the ambulance when he'd crept back into the crowd, drawn out by the sirens and burning in his stomach. He'd heard talks on the streets as he searched for the hospital that she was still alive. 

 

He was going to find her. He didn't know what he'd do when he did, but the gun burned hot inside his jacket. 

 

_________________________________

 

“Breath in.” A moment passed. “Breath out.” 

 

Dr. Bolovic nodded a scribbled down on his chart. 

 

“You've made a speedy recovery Anya. It's by all means miraculous. If that bullet had gone even half an inch in either direction you'd be dead.”

 

He put a hand on her shoulder and smiled at her. “You are a very lucky young lady.” 

 

Tired, she smiled. “Thank you Dr.Bolovic. When can I leave?” 

 

She'd been anxious all day yesterday. If Gleb had found her under her Nana’s protection he could certainly get to her confined to a hospital bed. 

 

She'd never tell Dimitry how afraid she was. He was worried about her already and she knew he blamed himself. She couldn't add to that. 

 

But he knew. He always knew. She felt Dimitry grab her hand and squeeze, sending a pulse to her heart. Or maybe he was the one who was afraid? The way he'd acted, what he'd said … It didn't matter to her. She was just grateful for the contact. 

 

“Yes, yes. Of course. Well, if you pass your physical I don't see any reason why you can't go home tonight.” 

 

A weight lifted off her shoulders. “Tonight?” 

 

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?” 

 

A smile spread across her face. “No! Of course not! Thank you, doctor, so much!” 

 

Pale as she was, the grin shined across her features. It brightened the room. But it couldn't push away a cloud of tension sitting in Dimitry’s stomach. 

 

“I'll call in Nurse Notoskova. She speaks Russian, and I'm sure you'd feel more comfortable with a woman examining you.” Anya nodded at him and gave a thanking smile before laying back on her cot. 

 

“Dimitry would you like to come outside with me?” They both shared a nervous glance. “Don't worry, he'll be back in as soon as the exam is over.” 

 

Confused, Dimitry followed. He saw a nurse enter the room as they walked the now familiar path to Bolovic’s office. He recognized her! The nurse that had been giving him updates while Anya was in surgery. 

 

He didn't have a chance to stop, not did he know what he would have said. Thanks for telling me Anya wasn't dead? 

 

The two entered the office and the older man gestured to take a seat. He walked behind his desk and paced. After a (strange) few moments, he whipped around and put his hands down hard against his desk. 

 

“Get it together, son!” 

 

Dimitry sat up straighter. “Excuse me?” 

 

“I say this because I've come to care for you, Dimitry. So I tell you as a father, get it together.”

 

“I don't know what you mean.”

 

“You looked like a plucked chicken in there!”

 

“I did not!” A moment's pause. “Did I?” 

 

“He sighed, sitting down in his worn leather chair. “I understand you're afraid. You feel like you can't protect her. Like she's safer with the machines and hospital than with you.” 

 

Dimitry rubbed his tired eyes. “Is it that obvious?”

 

“I've seen this countless times. I've felt it myself when I was bringing my wife home after our daughter died. You are not alone in your struggles Dimitry. You can be hurt without being the one who was shot. And she is safe with you. I've seen how you look at her. She couldn't be safer anywhere else.” 

 

_________________________________

 

“Try walking a step toward me, Anya.” 

 

Her knees were shaking. She still gripped tight to her bed frame. But she could stand, and take a step toward Notoskova. Even the one small step she’d taken had left her sweaty and heaving. 

 

“That was very good Anya! Take it easy, you've only just started to recover.” 

 

She walked over to Anya and offered her her elbow. She took it gratefully and they walked her back to a corner chair for her to rest at. Anya held on tight to the nurse’s arm, and was able to walk better with the support. Notoskova knew that this young lady would never be lacking that. 

 

Notoskova noted how determined she was. She was practically shaking but she kept pushing herself. That could make or break her recovery. 

 

“Anya, you need to rest.” 

 

“No! No, what's next. I can do this!” Anya was so anxious to leave this place. Leave the constant eyes of strangers, the wires, the reminders. 

 

Notoskova chuckled. “The young ones always want to leave. But if you push yourself too hard you can undo all the hard work Bolovic did in there.” 

 

Anya sunk in the chair, exhausted. “I just want to go home.” 

 

“Ah, anxious to be with your young man, are you? I'm afraid there can't be any of  _ that _ happening until you are fully recovered.” 

 

That got her attention. Anya went best red, standing straight as she could. “Oh, no, we-” 

 

“I've seen the way you look at each other. Not many nurses speak Russian so I had to be giving him updates until he could see you. Every hour he was awake, and waiting. It was a thirteen hour surgery but he was there every time to hear you were still okay.

 

“And my god you've chosen such a strong willed young man! Every night, fighting with all of us to stay a while longer! I can tell you feel the same. You keep looking at the door waiting for him to come through. Don't be ashamed! It's as true as love gets.” 

 

Anya sniffled. For so long she'd been afraid because he always pulled himself from her. She never cared about status or money or any of that, but she knew he did. All she wanted was him and he could never see that he was enough. 

 

“Alright Anya, one last test.” 

 

__________________________________

 

It was nearly noon, and Dr Bolovic was filling through the paperwork he had left for his patients at the nurses station. 

 

“Ah, here it is! Looks like you are officially discharged Anya.” 

 

Anya laughed like sunshine from the wheelchair. Dimitry tried to bite back the anxiety as he stood with his hands on her bars. She leaned her head back at him and smiled.  _ Why was she so damn adorable?  _

 

“Hear that Dimitry we’re going home!” 

 

“Yay!” He could tell it sounded strained, and knew she must have noticed despite every wish she didn't. 

 

Doctor Bolovic put down the clipboard and looked at the both of them. 

 

“A few rules until your check up. No solid foods, no swimming, and don't push yourself. Nurse Notoskova told me about how hard you are on yourself, Anya. Give it some time, and if anything feels like it's pulling, stop immediately and lay down. We don't want those stitches reopened.” 

 

She nodded, blushing. “I understand. I'll take it easy, and eat soup.” 

 

“And this goes to the both of you.” He glanced between them, a coy smile at his face. “No… strenuous activities. Under any circumstance.” 

 

They both started sputtering, a jumbled mix of “what”, “no”, and other unintelligibles. 

 

The doctor laughed, pointing left. “The elevators are that way. I'll see you two in three weeks!” 

 

The elevator ride was silent. 

 

“So is Vlad-” 

 

Dimitry nodded. “He's downstairs waiting. Lily let him borrow her car.”

 

Vlad had of course been there when she awoke, and every day while she was asleep, but she hadn't seen him yesterday. Dimitry told her he was off updating Lily and her Majesty but Anya felt it was something more.

 

The wheelchair had just been a formality from the hospital to get her outside, so when they reached the car Vlad reached down and hugged her tight before pulling her up. As they hugged, Dimitry quickly ran the wheelchair back into the hospital. 

 

“I've missed you Vlad!” 

 

“Ah, you too my dear! How are you feeling?”

 

“Sore, but alive and out of there.” 

 

Dimitry came back, and he and Vlad each took an arm as they walked Anya to her place in the car. 

 

Anya rolled her eyes. It was barely two feet and she was capable of walking! But she'd admit it warmed her to see that the cared so much about her. 

 

They talked all the drive to the hospital, Dimitry batting Vlad’s arm when he talked about how he wouldn't even shower unless Vlad begged him to - which he reminded them that he did many times. Dimitry and Anya both cringed harshly when he went into a little too much detail over what he'd been up to with Lily. 

 

It made her feel at home. Anya’d spent half of her life desperately trying to find her family and a place where she belonged without stress and constant fear. But she'd found it here, in the most unlikely of places: with two con men who'd had incredible luck choosing her to play the person she didn't know she truly was

 

This was her family. This was her home. And she loved them. 


	6. Chapter 6

Anya’s heart was bursting with love. She couldn't contain it! It felt like this was what was missing in her life. This is what she has  _ really _ been searching for all her life. 

 

“The bed! I've missed that bed so much Dimitry!” 

 

She felt him chuckle against her as he walked her to lay on it. She'd only been in this bed one night, one anxious filled night before meeting her Nana. After she'd been claimed by her, she'd lived in her grandmother's home where she'd admit the beds were stiff. 

 

But not this one. No, no, no. This bed was heaven itself. As soon as she sat on it she laid back and kicked off her shoes. She laid across the whole bed, arms splayed out. 

 

Then she heard it.

 

“Are you laughing at me?” She sat up, her own smile playing at her lips. 

 

“Oh, no, your majesty. By all means continue.” He could barely get out the sentence without breaking out in laughter. She kicked out at him playfully. 

 

“Unbelievable! Dima!” 

 

Finally the laughter died out in both of them, and they were left staring at each other, smiling like fools in Paris. 

 

“I'm just really glad you're okay, Anya.” 

 

For one second she thought he might kiss her. He was so close, just a step away, and sittings up their faces were only inches apart. They'd both been scared of losing one another. That's why she'd chased him to the station. That's why he had fought every night to stay at the hospital with her. They'd both waited long enough. 

 

But as of course, he pulled away. Anya knew he was trying to find something to say to change the mood, but she didn't care for it. 

 

“Hey Dimitry? Um, the dress you brought me at the hospital is a bit tight.” 

 

He turned around. “Okay, uh, which do you want me to get for you? You've got your night slip, and- oh you wouldn't want to wear something so fancy-” 

 

“Dima they're all too tight.” 

 

He was lost now. I mean, she was tiny! And it's not like she'd grown at all in the past week and a half. 

 

“It's just.” She fumbled, awkwardly trying to find the words. “Women's clothes pull tight over the stomach. It hurts. With the stitches.” 

 

His eyebrows knitted together. “Okay, okay. What can I do? How bad does it hurt?” 

 

She bit her lip. “Could I… borrow a shirt maybe? I just need something big that won't touch the stitches. But it doesn't hurt, that was a bad word, don't worry! It just-” 

 

“Anya, stop.” He sat down next to her. “It's okay to say you're hurting. And a shirt is nothing. If I can give you my potato when we were still in Russia, I can give you a shirt in France.” 

 

When Dimitry had got to France, he'd felt sweltering in his tweed jacket and three layers of undershirts. He’d gotten to a store- they'd needed disguises anyway, only a fresh Russian would dress as they did. They'd found a pack of short sleeved shirts, three for fifteen francs. 

 

_ Maybe capitalism wasn't so bad.  _

 

He was wearing one now, and had worn one at the hospital (for longer than he should have). He gave her the one new one left, and turned his back to let her change. 

 

“Dimitry?” He turned, confused. “I … can't get the zipper.” 

 

_ Oh _ .

 

He felt his face burn pink as he walked over. He tugged the zipper down, mesmerized by the reveal of her skin. She clutched the fabric to her chest, flushing as she looked over her shoulder.

 

Their eyes met and held for a moment. They stood still in time, one hand still on her shoulder. He didn't notice his other hand had drifted from the zipper down to her hip until he leaned forward and felt the curve of her leg.

 

He coughed and stepped back, desperately looking anywhere but her. He turned around and tried not to hear the whoosh of falling fabric, the click of a zipper onto the floor, the shift of a shirt being pulled over her head. 

 

He turned around, and his jaw fell to the floor. He'd never seen a girl in anything so  _ short.  _ He could see the color of her skin, each rise and fall, beneath the white fabric, her hair falling down to her back. 

 

She turned at the knock of the door, and he quickly averted his eyes. 

 

“Is Vlad back with dinner already?” Anya sat back down on the bed, pulling the sheets over her nearly bare legs.

 

Dimitry hesitated. He supposed he could be, if he'd found something close. He clenched his hands, and took slow steady steps to the door. He opened it. 

 

Gleb stood on the other side. 

 

For a second Dimitry stood in shock. 

 

Then his fist connected with his jaw. 

 

Gleb stumbled back, but he was never a man to take a hit lying down. He aimed his arms high and got Dimitry on the side of his face.

 

In a matter of seconds they were exchanging blows inside the hotel room.  Anya let out a yell as Dimitry fell in and she saw who he was fighting. A hard punch to the gut sent Dimitry sprawling forward, Gleb not giving him a second before moving to kick him. 

 

Dimitry grabbed Gleb’s ankle as the other leg lifted and yanked him down, rolling out of the way as he fell. Dimitry kneeled over Gleb as the man groaned from the fall, taking no time to relish in it before bringing his force down on him. Once, twice, he felt his knuckles connect to flesh, not caring where he struck. 

 

“Dimitry -- Ah!” 

 

He turned in time to see Anya fall. She had gotten up when the fighting started, and tried to run to him when she saw him fall. It had all happened in a matter of seconds, though it felt like years. In her haste she'd forgotten about the pain and the stitches in her side. As soon as she had taken a step toward them, too wide and fast for her healing body, she felt a searing pain in her stomach that brought her to her knees. 

 

The fight forgotten, Dimitry ran to her. 

 

“Anya!” 

 

She was curled in on herself on her hands and knees, gasping. Dimitry fell to his knees in front of her, eyes wide and afraid. He put his hands on either side of her face, gently lifting her face up so her eyes would meet his.

 

“I just wanted to help you. Gleb. He was going to-- ah.” Anya had tried to sit up, but another sharp pain had kept her down. 

 

“Where does it hurt?” For a man with bloodied knuckles and a bruising cheek, Dimitry's voice was softer than it ought to be. 

 

Gleb watched through a swollen eye as the other man helped Anya up, her arms around his shoulder, while she wore his shirt. A shirt with a spot of blood, over her right hip, reflecting the scene his nightmares hadn't let him forget. 

 

He'd followed them from the hospital here to make amends. Yet all he'd done was cause more pain, for him and everyone else. 

 

But that was precisely his life, wasn't it? 

 

What work had he done for his country? What sort of good fate had he brought to the Russian people? Poverty and pestilence? Fear and misery? He had devoted his life to these ideals, killed for them, and they'd failed.

 

He thought he might have loved this girl, the young Russian street sweeper, but he still shot her. What sort of man did that make him? 

 

He crept from the room, silent, unseen. 

 

__________________________________

 

Vlad’s whistle died on his lips when he walked into the room. The desk was tipped, and the chair was pushed halfway across the room. 

 

Dimitry had a welt across the side of his face, bloody and turning purple. Anya was laying over the covers on the bed. Her hands were shaking ever so slightly as she reached up to touch his face. Vlad noticed with a jolt of shock that there was blood on her shirt. 

 

“What in the name of God happened?” Vlad left the bag of food on the floor and ran to the bed. 

 

“I'm fine. Really.” Anya brushed him off unconvincingly. “Dimitry was the one who was hit, and he won't let me take a look.” 

 

“You're bleeding Anya, I think you've done enough.” Dimitry turned to face Vlad as Anya looked incredulously at him. 

 

“A Bolshevik officer came in, Gleb, the one who shot her. We had a little… altercation.” 

 

Vlad lowered his voice. “Did he hurt her?” 

 

Anya tried to sit up and join the conversation. “I fell! I tried to get up and I fell! Now would you stop talking about me like I'm not right in front of you?” 

 

There was a moment of silence. “I'm going to talk to the hotel manager about security.” 

 

“Vlad!” Anya yelled in indignation. 

 

“Anya. A man could have killed you tonight. He just walked in.” He cleared his throat. “Besides, I don't doubt we'll have to sort out the havoc that's been wrecked upon this room.” He passed a tired smile and left the room. 

 

Dimitry huffed and motioned his hand upwards. Anya took note of his raised eyebrows, deep breaths, and hand at his hip. 

 

“Well? We've got to deal with the blood.” 

 

Anya raised her own eyebrows back at him. “I'm sorry, are you  _ mad _ at me?” 

 

“What you did was stupid and reckless Anya!” 

 

“You were getting beat up while I was laying in the bed! What was I supposed to do?”

 

“I had it under control!” 

 

She snorted. “Is that why you were on the ground?”

 

“What would you have done? Fight him yourself?” 

 

“I don't know!” 

 

“See? Reckless! God, Anya, do you even care that you almost died?” 

 

“I can remember it perfectly well Dimitry.” She stared up at him, anger and pain in her eyes. 

 

They both stared at each other, heaving, regretful as the anger subsided. 

 

“I remember everything.” She looked at him. She'd never planned on sharing this with him, or anyone, but she knew now it only made her fearful and rash. “I couldn't do anything then, in the cellar. I watched as my family died and they shot me and I couldn't do anything. And now, it's all happening again. He shot me, and I couldn't do anything. I was lying in a hospital bed and I couldn't do anything. And here! I can't do anything! I can't protect anyone! I can't even protect myself.” 

 

Dimitry let out a breath. He sat on the bed next to her, so shockingly contrastant to two weeks ago when they were sharing memories of a parade. 

 

“That's how I felt. My mother died of cancer. There wasn't anything to fight. I tried fighting the guards when they took my dad-- that didn't go so well. And with you in the hospital. I couldn't do anything. It felt like I was going to explode. I tore apart Bolovic’s office.” 

 

Anya let out a wet laugh. “You didn't!” 

 

“I did,” he laughed. 

 

“So, how do you get passed that? Feeling helpless?” 

 

Dimitry sighed. “I'm not sure you do. But it helps if there's some things you can do. After my dad was taken away, I learned how to fight so I could protect myself if guards came to get me.” 

 

“I think I'd like to learn.” 

 

_ Anya has her stubborn face on _ , Dimitry noticed. There'd be no deterring her now. 

 

“Soon as you're healed up, I'll teach you. Come on, let's see what you did to your stitches.” 

 

Anya's face pinkened. She pushed down her anxiety and pulled up the under shirt.  _ At least she'd gotten on a fresh pair of underwear.  _

 

Dimitry poked at the skin around the stitches, a kaleidoscope of blue and yellow. 

 

“Good news. They don't look ripped. I think they just need to be cleaned up. I'll get a washcloth.” 

 

Dimitry had needed to be sure. He could have sworn he'd seen another patch of raised skin. Another gunshot wound, almost side by side to her new stitches. 

 

__________________________________

 

When he went back into the room, she was still lying on the bed trying to distract herself as she stared up at the ceiling. He knelt in front of her. 

 

“Alright. Ready?” She nodded. 

 

As soon as he pressed the cloth to her skin she flinched. 

 

“Sorry. I hadn't needed stitches since the nuns found me. I forgot how much they hurt to clean. It's all the bruising. Is it bad?” 

 

“Not too bad, I've seen worse.”  _ On dead people.  _ He offered a hand up for her to hold as he wiped away the blood from her bruised skin. He was right about the stitches not being torn, thankfully. 

 

Sure enough, it was there. A second bullet wound. He didn't ask her where it came from. They both knew. It was a miracle she had survived both. It was a gruesome reminder of all she had and did still endure. 

 

“He didn't pull his gun out.” 

 

Dimitry stopped and looked up at her. She was still staring at the ceiling above. 

 

“What?” 

 

“I know he had a gun. He's a Bolshevik. He'd never leave his gun. I just wonder, if he came here to kill me, why didn't he have his gun out?” 

 

“Anya--” 

 

“I know it's stupid. I'm not trying to defend the man who tried to kill me. I just need to understand. What was he going to do?” 

 

Dimitry put the bloodied washcloth in the garbage. “Let's just get you into a new shirt.” 

 

All he had left in his drawer was an old shirt he'd worn before their escape. The shirt was large enough on her that they were able to pull it over her legs and under the other before taking it off so she wouldn't have to stand naked. 

 

Anya had the biggest smile on her face, spreading to her sparkling eyes and rosing up her cheeks. She let out a giggle when she saw Dimitry staring. 

 

“It smells like Russia!” 

 

“Communism and dirt. Lovely.” 

 

She swat his arm playfully, laughing - quite literally - until it hurt.

 

They sat in bed for an hour, talking about everything and nothing, from home to their favorite bread in Petersburg to the color of the sky. 

 

Vlad came back an hour later, looking as tired as Anya had ever seen him. But seeing the two of them sitting and laughing together seemed to take five years of worry off his back. They ate their soups together as an act of solidarity since Anya couldn't eat solid foods. They talked for hours, as natural as breathing. 

 

That night, Anya slept easier than she ever had. She was lulled off by Dimitry's heartbeat. She could feel it through his skin pressed to her back. 

 

On a plane of the universe, between sleep and reality, she heard her sisters’ breathing.

 

That night, Anya had no nightmares. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I want you all to know how much you all mean to me. This story has been such fun to write, but alas I think the end is near. Tune in next Saturday for what will probably be the final chapter. Thank you all so much for the support these past few months!


	7. Chapter 7

“Are you ready for this?” Dimitry zipped up the back of her dress. His hands squeezed reassurance into her shoulders.

 

Anya swallowed hard. “Of course. I just have to tell my grandmother that I’m leaving again and I don’t know when I’ll be back and the police still haven’t found Gleb.” 

 

Dimitry sighed and let his head down.  _ Here we go again.  _ She shook her head as he clasped her necklace. Their eyes met in the mirror.

 

“Dimitry we can’t go.” 

 

“Anya -”

 

“I’m a terrible person! After all I’ve put her through, I’m just going to leave her?” 

 

He turned her around by the shoulders, her eyes wide as she bit her lip. 

 

“You’ve wanted this for weeks. We’ve talked this over. The doctor cleared you two months ago. And if he hasn’t come back yet, he’s not going to. Even if he does, you won’t be alone and you can defend yourself.”

 

“I know, but what if she needs me.” 

 

“Anya, you can do this. We’ll be back- what do you think? Every month?”

 

She nodded and went into Dimitry’s embrace. “Every month. I can do this.” 

 

She breathed deeply and stood tall, patting her hair into place. Dimitry offered her his arm. 

 

“Your majesty,” he flourished. 

 

She giggled, and he smiled back, and they walked together to the cab waiting outside the hotel room.

__________________________________

 

Throughout the play, Dimitry thought about only one thing: the week before, when Anya’d been cleared by the doctor completely. Then again, it had been playing in the background of his mind since. They'd gone back to the hotel, talking again. About home. About the future. It went unsaid that neither would be happy to leave the other. He'd said something to make her laugh, about Old Peotir’s dog back in Petersburg. He'd watched her toss her head back, with a smile to light the sun itself. He'd still been staring when she looked back at him. 

 

For a second- just a second, as they held each other’s gaze, the world had stood still. Then she kissed him. 

 

For him, it was like everything he'd fought for his whole life has finally fallen into place. 

 

She hadn't been a princess, she hadn't been above him, she hadn't been a little girl he'd seen twenty years before. 

 

She hadn't been Anastasia. 

 

She had been Anya. 

 

The girl from Russia who would share stories with him late into the night, who carried buckets of water five blocks so she could wash her blouse and skirts each week. The girl who carried a heart full of half memories and pockets filled with flower petals. 

 

He knew then, in that very moment as they looked down on one another that this was it. No matter the past, no matter the status, he was choosing her. And she'd chosen him later that night, when she asked him to take her to see the world.  

__________________________________

 

Dimitry and Anya took their seats at the end of the dowager’s table for dinner. Anya spun the pasta around on her plate, near exploding with nervous energy. Under the table Dimitry drew circles into her palm, soothing her and encouraging her to tell her grandmother. 

 

“Did you enjoy the play Anastasia?” 

 

“Of course, Nana. The dancing was beautiful.” Anya smiled, but her grandmother pursed her lips unconvinced. 

 

“You haven't been yourself all day. Is something the matter?” Her eyebrows lifted, giving away the concern she felt under her regal exterior. “Is it the doctor? Are you sick?” She glances to her granddaughter, and Dimitry by her side. “Pregnant?”

 

Dimitry choked on his water, red and sputtering. 

 

Anya shot up straighter. “No! Nana, no! Nothing's wrong, I'm not pregnant, I'm fine!” 

 

In ever an un-Empress-like matter she huffed. But that was it, wasn't it? She wasn't an empress anymore, she was an old lady whose only love left was her granddaughter. A granddaughter who wasn't acting right and she needed to know why. 

 

“So what is it then? Anastasia, you know you could tell me anything.” 

 

Anya bit her lip. She looked pleadingly to Dimitry for help but he raised his hands in surrender.  _ This is your Nana. But you've got this _ , his expression told her. 

 

Anya took a deep breath and nodded. She closed her eyes and forced herself to get it out. 

 

“Dimitry and I are leaving Paris!” 

 

Maria put down her fork and smiled softly. She reached across the table to take her granddaughter’s hands. 

 

“I always knew you were going to leave, Anastasia. You'd always wanted to see the world. No country could hold you, I've known that since you were a child. I know you're alive and safe, and that will always enough.” 

 

Anya sniffled. “I love you Nana. We'll be back. Every month. And I'll mail letters, and call when we see a payphone.” 

 

“You've grown into a fine young woman, Anastasia. And you.” 

 

The empress turned her gaze now to Dimitry, making him feel more than a little uncomfortable. They'd barely spoken since the hospital, both of them devoting themselves to Anya while she was at the palace. But she smiled at him past the shine in her eyes. 

 

( _ Yeah, that only made it worse. _ )

 

“I trust you'll take care of her?”

 

“I'll try, but she makes it a full time job, you know.” A thud as Anya kicked Dimitry’s leg under the table. “Of course I'll take care of her, your majesty.” 

 

The old woman gave a chuckle. She could remember herself and Alexander in such a way, behind closed doors, before the tensions of state and war caught up to them in their early years together. It was all she had ever wanted for her family: love and prosperity. She knew, even with the Russian throne lost, the dynasty remained in her granddaughter. The Romanov fore could not be so easily extinguished. 

 

She had a thought.  _ The Romanov dynasty.  _ It never really did end, did it? Not with Anastasia standing before her. It was unorthodox, but it could work. 

 

“Anastasia, darling, would you care to join me in the living room a moment?” 

 

Anya placed a hand on Dimitry’s shoulder. He knew she liked having alone time with her grandmother. He watched them go, and thought back to the night she kissed him and imagined a life together with her. 

__________________________________

 

Something seemed wrong. Maria Feodorovna was never silent with her granddaughter, never when they were alone. 

 

“Nana? Are you alright?” 

 

The empress sat, of course with her perfect posture, in her favorite cushioned chair by the bookcase. Naturally, Anya took the seat next to her. 

 

“All I've ever wanted is my family’s legacy and protection. Anastasia, you are at heart a Romanov. Russia  _ belongs _ to  _ you _ . I could help you take her back.”

 

Anya sat, dumbstruck. She was a teenage girl sheltered from politics the last there had been a Tzar in Russia. All she had known was the fear and tension. She was never made to be a Tsaritsa. It wasn't a life for her. 

 

“Nana, I can't.” 

 

“Nonsense. Every White Russian would support you, no doubt the Americans would if we got it large enough -” 

 

“No, Nana.” Anya grasped her grandmother's hands, a tear fighting its way down her check. “Russia is lost to us. I'll bless her until the day I die, but I can never go back. Russia was lost the day they killed Mama and Papa, and Alexei and Olga and Tatiana and Maria. We can't take it back, we  _ shouldn't _ . It's done.” 

 

Maria dabbed at her own eyes. She didn't smile, but she wasn't mad. The truth was the hardest to accept. 

 

She reached down into her book shelf and pulled out a picture collection book. It's leather pages were getting lines, well worn through the years. She put it in her lap, and flipped it open. 

 

She turned to Anastasia, whose eyes were wide and welling. “This is your family, Anastasia. That's your father as a child, and there oh his wedding day with your mother. He had dedicated many letters about how beautiful she was when he saw her at his uncle's wedding. I knew then he wasn't going to give up on her easy.” 

 

They flipped through photos together, tears splashing the laminated covers. Her mother with child, shining through the photograph. The whole family reclined on their boat, Anastasia and Tatiana dipping their feet into the water. Olga’s first formal portrait. Alexei as a baby, smaller than she had even remembered. Dancing women, her and her sisters locked arms across the dance floor. Finally, their last family portrait days before abdication, on the last page of the binder. 

 

“These are more than I remembered.” Anya couldn't even tear herself away from the faces of her family long gone. 

 

“I want you to take it.” 

 

Anya looked up in shock. “What? Nana I couldn't.” 

 

Nevertheless, the Dowager Empress closed the book and placed it on her granddaughter’s lap. “I'm an old woman Anastasia, I have thousands of photos, and I've committed them to memory. They would want you to remember them this way.” 

 

The two women hugged, teardrops falling onto each of their shoulders. Anya placed a kiss on her grandmother’s check. 

 

“Thank you, Nana.” 

 

They followed each other out of the sitting room. When they returned to the dining table, Anya still clutching the book to her chest, Dimitry stood. She had tear stains on her cheeks, smudging the little bit of mascara she had so carefully applied for their last night in Paris. 

 

He didn't need to ask her what had brought on her tears. She always had this look on her face upon talking about her family. Her forehead would scrunch like she would sob at the flip of a dime, but her lips spread into a wistful smile. It was a mix of pain and pleasure. She'd told him once it was like squeezing over a blister. The pain stopped for the moment, but as soon as you let it go it came back worse. 

 

He pulled her chair out for her and offered his hand. She looked almost like a dream as she took slow graceful strides toward him, dragging her silk pink dress behind her. She took his hand in hers, still holding her family album tight. She looked up at him through her lashes. She looked angelic. 

 

Or rather, like a princess. 

 

He felt the beginning of doubt creep in. Conmen and princesses weren't meant to get a fairytale ending after all. But he felt how her palm fit perfectly in his own. He felt how her lips smiled against his every moment she could sneak a peck, and every giggle that followed. And the doubt was gone. It was just him and her. 

 

Anya had just sat down when a knock interrupted the quiet air. Lily entered and bowed, ever the Countess. But there was no mistaking the frazzledness of her state- she never came to the Empress’s home without her precious diamond broach glittering proud over her heart. 

 

“Lily? Whatever is the matter?” The Dowager had been the first to realize something was wrong. She'd given her lady the night off, and she always took that opportunity to spend it at the Russian club.

 

“I was at the Neva Club with -” she glanced to the Dowager remembering her disapproval of Vlad. “ - Anywho. I overheard Sasha Madevski talking to Nikita about her cousin Misha who lives on the Ukrainian border. Misha found someone who smuggled their way across the border from Petersburg. He sent his cousin a letter to see if she would take him in, and in the letter told her all this gossip he heard.” 

 

“Lily, do get to the point, it has been a long day.”

 

“Of course you're majesty. Well, there's a rumor in St.Petersburg that the man who shot you, dear, is dead.” 

 

Anya froze in her chair, blood running cold. “Dead?” 

 

Dimitry felt his own heart race. “How?” 

 

“They said he came back to Russia and said he killed you. Shouted like a mad man, Moana says the man told him. Then he shot himself, fell straight into the Neva.” 

 

How was she supposed to feel about this? She'd hated him for curtain. Yet in his last act he'd granted her complete freedom. A man was dead, and she was free at last. 

 

“Thank you, Lily,” the Dowager said, dismissing her. 

 

“It's over. You're safe. It's really over.” Dimitry spoke to her, although he'd be lying if he said it wasn't also to reassure himself. 

 

“I suppose you two will be leaving tomorrow?” Dimitry waited for Anya to respond to her grandmother. The news was a shock, and he wouldn't leave if she'd wanted to stay in Paris. But she nodded, and he was relieved despite himself. He wanted a fresh start with her, a new life away from all of this.

 

“Would you do an old woman one last wish before you leave? Our lullaby.” 

 

Anya took no time to agree, and they held one another as they sang. Anya wanted a new life, but it was hard to leave her family when she felt like she had just found it. Even though she would always be back, it was still hard to say goodbye. She held her grandmother tight, hoping to keep the warmth with her for the weeks until they saw each other again. 

 

__________________________________

 

“All aboard!” 

 

The sun had only just risen, setting a golden light to the nearly empty train station. They'd said all their goodbyes, had waved to Vlad and Lily from the station steps. 

 

“So this is it.” 

 

Anya stopped on the second step to board the train and looked back. Over the green canopy she could see the Eiffel Tower, and imagined that past it she could see her grandmother’s home. 

 

She'd fought to be here for so long. It had been her dream since she was a child. But now it was time to start new, to find another journey, this time to the future. 

 

Dimitry watched her, drenched in the morning yellow sun. She seemed to carry the stars themselves in her eyes. He watched them twinkling. Anya seemed to grow weightless with the true freedom. The prospect of the world before her had her absolutely glowing. Standing in a simple white sundress, she looked perfect. He could hardly believe that this was real. That they were leaving, together. 

 

That she had chosen him. 

 

He held onto the rails and pulled himself up to the first step. He leaned in, and kissed her. It felt like the warmth of summer after the harshest Russian winter. 

 

Her arms still held him flush against her, their noses touching. He could feel her smile against his own lips. He opened his eyes to find her staring back, with those sunlight-twinkling blue eyes.  

 

“I love you.” 

 

He'd waited long enough to say it, but the moment was to perfect. They were running into the sun toward their new life together. There was no more fear or doubt. 

 

She kissed him again, hard and soft together. 

 

“I was wondering if you were ever going to say it to me while I was awake.” 

 

He pulled away, a laugh of confusion escaping before the realization and embarrassment set it. 

 

“You heard us? When you were in the hospital?” 

 

She laughed and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. She picked up her bags and boarded the train. 

 

“I love you too, Dima.” She put her head on his shoulder when he met her at the top step. She took a final breath of Paris air, and walked into the train, taking to her to Rome and England and Spain and anywhere and everywhere. 

 

It had taken a bullet to the side, a walk across Russia, and a very dangerous trip across the border, but here she was on a one way trip to the world with Prince Charming. 

 

The Con Man and Princess did get their fairy tail ending after all; the sunlight, their freedom, and each other. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is it! This story has been such a journey, and I am so happy to have shared it with you. You guys have been so amazing and supportive. I hope to have more work out soon; I'm not ready to say goodbye to these guys yet! I'm open to suggestions in the comments below. I read every single one. The comments I have gotten from you all have made my heart burst! I love you all, and thank you for reading!  
> Until next time, Sam.


End file.
